“Before that time, Kevin Landwaster doubted Lord Foul without knowing why—for the Despiser had enacted no ill which Kevin could discover—and he showed trust for Lord Foul out of shame for his unworthy doubt. Then, through the Despiser’s plotting, a message came to the Council of Lords from the Demondim in Mount Thunder. The message asked the Lords to come to the Demondim loreworks, the spawning crypts where the ur-viles were made, to meet with the loremasters, who claimed knowledge of a secret power.
“Clearly, Lord Foul intended for Kevin to go to Mount Thunder. But the High Lord doubted, and did not go. Then he was ashamed of his doubt, and sent in his stead some of his truest friends and strongest allies. So a high company of the Old Lords rafted as was their wont down the Soulsease through Andelain to Mount Thunder. And here, in the roar and spray and ill of Treacher’s Gorge, they were ambushed by ur-viles. They were slaughtered, and their bodies sent to the abyss of the mountain. Then marched armies like these out of the catacombs, and the Land was plunged all unready into war.
“That long conflict went on battle after death-littered battle without hope. High Lord Kevin fought bravely. But he had sent his friends into ambush. Soon he began his midnight meetings with despair—and there was no hope.”
The seductive, dizzy rush of the river drained Covenant’s resistance. Spray beaded on his face like sweat.
Foamfollower had wanted to do the same thing—leap into the writhing allure of the Gorge—fall on the Cavewights from ambush.
With an effort that made him moan through his clenched teeth, Covenant backed away from the Look. Gripping himself against the wall, he asked without apparent transition, “Is he still laughing?”
Mhoram appeared to understand. “No. Now he sits and quietly sings the song of the Unhomed, and gives no sign.”
Foamfollower! Covenant breathed. “Why did you stop the Bloodguard? He might’ve hurt Prothall.”
The Lord turned his back on Treacher’s Gorge to face Covenant. “Saltheart Foamfollower is my friend. How could I interfere?” A moment later, he added, “The High Lord is not defenseless.”
Covenant persisted. “Maybe a Raver—”
“No.” Mhoram’s flat assertion acknowledged no doubt. “Tuvor spoke truly. No Raver has the might to master a Giant.”
“But something”—Covenant groped—“something is hurting him. He—he doesn’t believe those omens. He thinks—Drool—or something—is going to prevent the Giants from going Home.”
Mhoram’s reply was so soft that Covenant was forced to read it on his crooked lips. “So do I.”
Foamfollower!
Covenant looked down the rift at the Giant. In the darkness Foamfollower sat like a lump of shale against one wall, singing quietly and staring at invisible visions on the stone before him. The sight brought up a surge of sympathetic anger in Covenant, but he clamped it down, clutched his bargain. The walls of the rift leaned in toward him, like suffocating fear, dark wings. He thrust himself past the Giant and out toward the ravine.
Before long, the company gathered there for supper. They ate by the light of one dim lillianrill torch; and when the meal was done, they tried to get some sleep. Covenant felt that rest was impossible; he sensed the army of Cavewights unrolling like a skein of destruction for the weaving of the Land’s death. But the ceaseless roar of the river lulled him until he relaxed against the ground. He dozed slightly, with the drums of war throbbing in the rock under him.
Later, he found himself sharply awake. The red moon had passed the crest of Mount Thunder, and now glared straight down on the ravine. He guessed that midnight was past. At first, he thought that the moon had roused him with its nearly full stare. But then he realized that the vibration of the drums was gone from the rock. He glanced around the camp, and saw Tuvor whispering with High Lord Prothall. The next moment, Tuvor began waking the sleepers.
Soon the warriors were alert and ready. Covenant had his knife in the belt of his robe, his staff in his hand. Birinair held aloft a rod with a small flame flickering from its tip, and in that uncertain light Mhoram and Prothall stood together with Manethrall Lithe, Warhaft Quaan, and the First Mark. Dim shadows shifted like fear and resolution across Prothall’s face. His voice sounded weak with age as he said, “Now is our last hour of open sky. The outpouring of Drool’s army has ended. Those of us who will must go into the catacombs of Mount Thunder. We must take this chance to enter, while Drool’s attention is still with his army—before he can perceive that we are not where he thinks us to be.
“Now is the time for those who would to lay down the Quest. There can be no retreat, or escape after failure, in the Wightwarrens. The Quest has already been bravely served. None who now lay it down need feel shame.”
Carefully Quaan said, “Do you turn back, High Lord?”
“Ah, no,” sighed Prothall. “The hand of these times is upon me. I dare not falter.”
Then Quaan replied, “Can a Eoman of the Warward of Lord’s Keep turn back when the High Lord leads? Never!”
And the Eoman echoed, “Never!”
Covenant wondered where Foamfollower was, what the Giant would do. For himself, he felt intuitively sure that he had no choice, that his dream would only release him by means of the Staff of Law. Or by death.
The next moment, Manethrall Lithe spoke to Prothall. Her head was back, and her slim form was primed as if she were prepared to explode. “I gave my word. Your horses will be tended. The Cords will preserve them in hope of your return. But I—” She shook her bound hair as if she were defying herself. “I will go with you. Under the ground.” Prothall’s protest she stopped with a sharp gesture. “You set an example I must follow. How could I stand before a Ranyhyn again, if I come so far only to turn away when the peril becomes great? And I feel something more. The Ramen know the sky, the open earth. We know air and grass. We do not lose our way in darkness—the Ranyhyn have taught our feet to be sure. I feel that I will always know my way—outward. You may have need of me, though I am far from the Plains of Ra, and from myself.”
The shadows formed Prothall’s face into a grimace, but he responded quietly, “I thank you, Manethrall. The Ramen are brave friends of the Land.” Casting his eyes over the whole company, he said, “Come, then. The outcome of our Quest awaits. Whatever may befall us—as long as there are people to sing, they will sing that in this dark hour the Land was well championed. Now be true to the last.” Without waiting for an answer, he went out of the bloody moonlight into the rift.
The warriors let Covenant follow behind the two Lords as if according him a position of respect. Prothall and Mhoram walked side by side; and when they neared the Look, Covenant could see from between them Foamfollower standing at the edge of the cliff. The Giant had his palms braced above his head on either wall. His back was to the Lords; he stared into the bleak, blood-hued writhing of the river. His huge form was dark against the vermilion sky.
When the Lords came near him, he said as if he were speaking back to them from the Gorge, “I remain here. My watch. I will guard you. Drool’s army will not trap you in Mount Thunder while I live.” A moment later, he added as if he had recognized the bottom of himself, “From here I will not smell the Wightwarrens.” But his next words carried an echo of old Giantish humor. “The catacombs were not made to accommodate creatures the size of Giants.”
“You choose well,” murmured Prothall. “We need your protection. But do not remain here after the full moon. If we do not return by that time, we are lost, and you must go to warn your people.”
Foamfollower answered as if in reply to some other voice. “Remember the Oath of Peace. In the maze where you go, it is your lifeline. It preserves you against Soulcrusher’s purposes, hidden and savage. Remember the Oath. It may be that hope misleads. But hate—hate corrupts. I have been too quick to hate. I become like what I abhor.”
“Have some respect for the truth,” Mhoram snapped. The sudden harshness of his tone startled Covenant. “You are Saltheart Foamfollo
wer of the Seareach Giants, Rockbrother to the men of the Land. That name cannot be taken from you.”
But Covenant had heard no self-pity in the Giant’s words—only recognition and sorrow. Foamfollower did not speak again. He stood as still as the walls against which he braced himself—stood like a statue carved to occupy the Look.
The Lords spent no more time with him. Already the night was waning, and they wanted to enter the mountain before daylight.
The Questers took positions. Prothall, Birinair, and two Bloodguard followed First Mark Tuvor. Then came Mhoram, Lithe, Bannor, Covenant, and Korik. Then came Warhaft Quaan, his fourteen warriors, and the last four Bloodguard.
They were only twenty-nine against all of Drool Rockworm’s unknown might.
They strung a line of clingor from Tuvor to the last Bloodguard. In single file, they started down the slick stair into Treacher’s Gorge.
TWENTY-TWO: The Catacombs of Mount Thunder
Drool’s moon embittered the night like a consummation of gall. Under it, the river thrashed and roared in Treacher’s Gorge as if it were being crushed. Spray and slick-wet moss made the stair down from the Look as treacherous as a quagmire.
Covenant bristled with trepidations. At first, when his turn to begin the descent had come, his dread had paralyzed him. But when Bannor had offered to carry him, he had found the pride to make himself move. In addition to the clingor line, Bannor and Korik held his staff like a railing for him. He went tortuously down into the Gorge as if he were striving to lock his feet on the stone of each step.
The stair dropped irregularly from the cliff into the wall of the Gorge. Soon the company was creeping into the loud chasm, led only by the light of Birinair’s torch. The crimson froth of the river seemed to leap up at them like a hungry plague as they neared the roadway. Each step was slicker than the one before. Behind him, Covenant heard a gasp as one of the warriors slipped. The low cry carried terror like the quarrel of a crossbow. But the Bloodguard anchoring the line were secure; the warrior quickly regained his footing.
The descent dragged on. Covenant’s ankles began to ache with the increasing uncertainty of his feet. He tried to think his soles into the rock, make them part of the stone through sheer concentration. And he gripped his staff until his palms were so slick with sweat that the wood seemed to be pulling away from him. His knees started to quiver.
But Bannor and Korik upheld him. The distance to the roadway shrank. After several long, bad moments, the threat of panic receded.
Then he reached the comparative safety of the ledge. He stood in the midst of the company between the Gorge wall and the channel of the river. Above them, the slash of sky had begun to turn gray, but that lightening only emphasized the darkness of the Gorge. Birinair’s lone torch flickered as if it were lost in a wilderland.
The Questers had to yell to make themselves understood over the tumult of the current. Briskly Quaan gave marching orders to his Eoman. The warriors checked over their weapons. With a few gestures and a slight nod or two, Tuvor made his last arrangements with the Bloodguard. Covenant gripped his staff, and assured himself of his Stonedownor knife—Atiaran’s knife. He had a vague impression that he had forgotten something. But before he could try to think what it was, he was distracted by shouts.
Old Birinair was yelling at High Lord Prothall. For once, the Hearthrall seemed careless of his gruff dignity. Against the roar of the river, he thrust his seamed and quivering face at Prothall, and barked, “You cannot! The risk!”
Prothall shook his head negatively.
“You cannot lead! Allow me!”
Again, Prothall silently refused.
“Of course!” shouted Birinair, struggling to make his determination carry over the howl of water. “You must not! I can! I know the ways! Of course. Are you alone old enough to study? I know the old maps. No fool, you know—if I look old, and”—he faltered momentarily—“and useless. You must allow me!”
Prothall strove to shout without sounding angry. “Time is short! We must not delay. Birinair, old friend, I cannot put the first risk of this Quest onto another. It is my place.”
“Fool!” spat Birinair, daring any insolence to gain his point. “How will you see?”
“See?”
“Of course!” The Hearthrall quivered with sarcasm. “You will go before! Risk all! Light the way with Lordsfire! Fool! Drool will see you before you reach Warrenbridge!”
Prothall at last understood. “Ah, that is true.” He sagged as if the realization hurt him. “Your light is quieter than mine. Drool will surely sense our coming if I make use of my staff.” Abruptly he turned to one side, angry now. “Tuvor!” he commanded. “Hearthrall Birinair leads! He will light our way in my place. Ward him well, Tuvor! Do not let this old friend suffer my perils.”
Birinair drew himself up, rediscovering dignity in his responsibility. He extinguished the rod he carried, and gave it to a warrior to pack away with the rest of his brands. Then he stroked the end of his staff, and a flame sprang up there. With a brusque beckon, he raised his fire and started stiffly down the roadway toward the maw of Mount Thunder.
At once, Terrel and Korik passed the Hirebrand and took scouting positions twenty feet ahead of him. Two other Bloodguard placed themselves just behind him; and after them went Prothall and Mhoram together, then two more Bloodguard followed singly by Manethrall Lithe, Covenant, and Bannor. Next marched Quaan with his Eoman in files of three, leaving the last two Bloodguard to bring up the rear. In that formation, the company moved toward the entrance to the catacombs.
Covenant looked upward briefly to try to catch a last glimpse of Foamfollower in the Look. But he did not see the Giant; the Gorge was too full of darkness. And the roadway demanded his attention. He went into the rock under Foamfollower without any wave or sign of farewell.
Thus the company strode away from daylight—from sun and sky and open air and grass and possibility of retreat—and took their Quest into the gullet of Mount Thunder.
Covenant went into that demesne of night as if into a nightmare. He was not braced for the entrance to the catacombs. He had approached it without fear; the relief of having survived the descent from the Look had rendered him temporarily immune to panic. He had not said farewell to Foamfollower; he had forgotten something; but these pangs were diffused by a sense of anticipation, a sense that his bargain would bring him out of the dream with his ability to endure intact.
But the sky above—an openness of which he had hardly been aware—was cut off as if by an ax, and replaced by the huge stone weight of the mountain, so heavy that its aura alone was crushing. In his ears, its mass seemed to rumble like silent thunder. The river’s roaring mounted in the gullet of the cave, adumbrated itself as if the constricted pain of the current were again constricted into keener and louder pain. The spray was as thick as rain; ahead of the company, Birinair’s flame burned dim and penumbral, nearly quenched by the wet air. And the surface of the roadway was hazardous, littered with holes and rocks and loose shale. Covenant strained his attention as if he were listening for a note of sense in the gibberish of his experience, and under this alertness he wore his hope of escape like a buckler.
In more ways than one, he felt that it was his only protection. The company seemed pathetically weak, defenseless against the dark-dwelling Cavewights and ur-viles. Stumbling through night broken only at the solitary point of Birinair’s fire, he predicted that the company would be observed soon. Then a report would go to Drool, and the inner forces of the Wightwarrens would pour forth, and the army would be recalled—what chance had Foamfollower against so many thousands of Cavewights?—and the company would be crushed like a handful of presumptuous ants. And in that moment of resolution or death would come his own rescue or defeat. He could not envision any other outcome.
With these thoughts, he walked as if he were listening for the downward rush of an avalanche.
After some distance, he realized that the sound of the river was changing.
The roadway went inward almost horizontally, but the river was falling into the depths of the rock. The current was becoming a cataract, an abysmal plummet like a plunge into death. The sound of it receded slowly as the river crashed farther and farther away from the lip of the chasm.
Now there was less spray in the air to dim Birinair’s flame. With less dampness to blur it, the stone wall showed more of its essential granite. Between the wall and the chasm, Covenant clung to the reassurance of the roadway. When he put a foot down hard, he could feel the solidity of the ledge jolt from his heel to the base of his spine.
Around him, the cave had become like a tunnel except for the chasm on the left. He fought his apprehension by concentrating on his feet and the Hirebrand’s flame. The river fell helplessly, and its roar faded like fingers scraping for a lost purchase. Soon he began to hear the moving noises of the company. He turned to try to see the opening of the Gorge, but either the road had been curving gradually, or the opening had been lost in the distance; he saw nothing behind him but night as unmitigated as the blackness ahead.
But after a time he felt that the looming dark was losing its edge. Some change in the air attenuated the midnight of the catacombs. He stared ahead, trying to clarify the perception. No one spoke; the company hugged its silence as if in fear that the walls were capable of hearing.
Shortly, however, Birinair halted. Covenant, Lithe, and the Lords quickly joined the old Hirebrand. With him stood Terrel.
“Warrenbridge lies ahead,” said the Bloodguard. “Korik watches. There are sentries.” He spoke softly, but after the long silence his voice sounded careless of hazards.
“Ah, I feared that,” whispered Prothall. “Can we approach?”
“Rocklight makes dark shadows. The sentries stand atop the span. We can approach within bowshot.”
Mhoram called quietly for Quaan while Prothall asked, “How many sentries?”
Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane Page 43
